Life is a Literary Device
by MorbidxFascination
Summary: It's funny, how in the end, they all ended up together.


Hermione lives in Venice.

Ginny is lost.

Harry and Ron share a flat in a German town they do not know the name of.

George is dead.

Fred has a home (no, just an empty shell house) in Athens.

Blaise has a vineyard on the Roman hillsides.

Hannah loves Paris but stays in rainy Brussels.

Pansy and Draco _do _have a salon in Paris.

Dean found a nice artisan community in California.

Fleur loves Denmark but hates her promise to Bill.

So…that leaves only England to go back to.

When it's time.

Internationality is a pregnant Danish girl smoking a French cigar in Venice.

Hermione would be that girl is she were in fact Danish, but she's not Danish, she's English, and she hates that. She hates that she hates her homeland. Hates that to the end of the world and back again, but there it is.

Denial is, over all, a waste of her time.

But what else is she going to do in her third trimester?

She used to walk the canals in Venice smelling the fish, the history, and the grandiose romanticism of the city. That is gone now, replaced by a cruel rush of morning sickness and a fascination with pickle ice cream and mustard calzones.

Now Hermione leans out the window of her loft, pale pink curtains fluttering into the bedroom romantically as if she were a model in an American perfume advert. This is a vaguely embarrassing thought as she holds a cigar between two thin fingers, her belly drooping over her grey sweatpants she has owned since seventeen (wow…two whole years ago), her breasts naked to the world passing below, but thankfully none of them look up.

She drops the cigar butt on to the traditional cobblestones below, the little old man selling roasted chestnuts scowls up at her as she passes back into the one bedroom apartment where Viktor lays sprawled across their bed, also hung in faint pink, a book propped open under him…a medical text for university.

Viktor wants to be an artist, not a primary care physician.

They aren't married, they are companions, Hermione is not even entirely sure this is his child, she fears (hopes?) it may be Teddy Nott's, it would be so much better cared for by an old family. That thought also scares her, that she has allowed herself to be so brainwashed that she can't even hate a prejudice, can barely recognize one.

But isn't hating someone because of a prejudice just as bad as the prejudice itself?

"Aye," mutters Viktor in consent, Hermione looks up, surprised, not knowing she's spoken aloud.

Hermione smiles and crawls into bed next to him, sliding her palm up his bare chest as he twiddles a nipple idly, knowing full well Hermione can't do anything at nine months and bursting. For hours, they stay in that bed, holding one another, the medical text forgotten as Hermione convinces Viktor that pasta and old black and white movies are necessary, and Viktor will not argue with a woman twice his size (he is not that dim).

It is a stream of classic bob cuts and smoking cinematic goddesses that lull Hermione into a warm, full, sleep. Behind her eyes flash images of rolling green hills, a baby on a blanket under bright blue skies, lilies on graves, and…

"We've got to go back," whispers Hermione to Viktor, still awake, his arm around her, glasses propped on his nose as he reads one armed.

All he did was arch a brow, he was not here to escape anything, he was here to be with Hermione Granger. She snuggles back into the crook of his shoulder and sighs wistfully, "For the baby, the baby needs to know…" and Hermione trails off dreamily as Viktor writes a letter to send with the post owl.

The loft has been Ginny's for two years now, ever since the war ended and the Order (disordered) fell apart after a bottle of bittersweet champagne opened at the last funeral.

In two years time Ginny still hadn't unpacked all her dust hewn boxes, most were stacked in the front room, the kitchen had only peanut butter and caffeine to offer, the vanity in the bathroom was a mess of travel size toothpaste, and the only signs of life in her bedroom were mussed covers, an open bottle of red, and two tattered pink slippers.

This loft is too big for one girl.

With a sigh, Ginny drops her bag on the ground, her tasteful skirt follows and then her blazer, so she is left in a matching lace underwear and bra set. With her bottle of red, some music that plays from some distant star, and her latest literary conquest she settles under the covers to relax. The thought of a warm bubble bath is too depressing to contemplate, as are the merits of take out food and letters that need to be written.

Where she is, Ginny herself doesn't even know.

Perhaps this is a crossroad, yes, that seems the sort of fucked up magical metaphor that her life would be laced with. A crossroad, and is she supposed to continue representing a government she hates, or should she turn around and go back…

Go back to what?

There is nothing left in London except a turned down marriage proposal (Ginny, I'm gay…with your brother), blood, a bit of dirt perhaps, her mother's will, and a number of molds that make her sneeze in winter.

Half heartedly Ginny flips the page of her book (protagonist meets love, hates love, falls for antagonist, antagonist and heroine have mad sex, antagonist is evil, protagonist runs back to love, it is raining the entire time), but her mind is still on that ridiculous crossroad.

So she sips at her wine.

An owl taps at her window, in his claw he clutches a letter signed by an old, forgotten, Quidditch legend, but to Ginny this is not an autograph for auction so much as a road map.

With a sense of purpose Ginny falls on top of a cardboard box, still clad meagerly, and digs around until she uncovers a long forgotten piece of thin wood.

This is not home, this is an empty flat Ginny is too small for, London is bad memories and what-not, but it is England, and England is character, soul, family, it is time to discover that again.

There are barely three hundred people in (insert name of town here).

That is why Harry came here, why Ron followed, why no one has heard from them in two years, and why…well, that's the general explanation for everything.

Ron is the bar tender at Versh Prime (which might mean something erotic in German), and Harry is a coach at the local school, teaching little ones how to kick a ball, how to run, how to fall down, and how to get back up again.

This is all very hypocritical of Harry as he himself left England so he could stay down.

But, whatever, he drinks so he doesn't have to think philosophically, "Martini, dry," he says to Ron as he greets him in the bar with a kiss.

"Already here," confirms Ron, sliding a frosted glass to Harry, removing the olive as a payment. The bar is shady, couples in corners, American music playing repeatedly, so often heard that Ron knows the lyrics better than he knows Harry's soul. (B-A-N-A-N-A-S). Regulars troop in and Ron has a few conversations about weather and stocks, not that he knows anything financial what so ever, but bartending is not about mixing drinks (though that helps) it's about empathy. As the crowd of Friday evening picks up Harry hops over the counter and joins Ron, giving more than he is receiving.

Harry: "Cosmopolitan. Maybe I should try again, this is not supposed to be green."

"Tequila."

Harry: "Erm…Ron? How do you say whisky in German?"

"Whisky, she'll understand."

Harry: "Cooking sherry? You want cooking sherry? Right-o."

"Gin and tonic."

Harry: "Are you sure you want cooking sherry?"

"Coke and bourbon."

Harry: "Positive on this cooking sherry thing?"

"He doesn't understand you Harry. Just give him his damn cooking sherry."

Harry: "You have power issues."

Ron slaps his ass with a bar rag and wipes the counter, protecting his baby against condensation rings, there used to be tattered Tarot cards for coasters, but Madame Zargalof was offended. "Drink your martini," orders Ron good-naturedly.

With a smile, Harry sips the clear liquors.

His smile falls as Ron says, "We're going back to England."

Martini sputters all over the counter, it is quickly wiped up by Ron's trusty towel. "Why?" gapes Harry, fine trickles going down his neck and under his collar. His celery eyes grow wide and perfectly round, Ron's freckles paling, no longer reddening under pressure.

"Tom died. There's an empty bar."

Numbly Harry blinks and then sets his empty glass on the counter before sliding off his stool and walking outside into the cool night air of (insert name here). He tugs his zip up, throwing the end of a faded gold and red scarf over his shoulder, clouds dancing up from his mouth toward the full moon (he says a prayer here for a wolf he once knew).

His feet slog over the cobblestones, a Volkswagen bumps down the street in the night, remnant of a dark wizard controlling a man and his army of swastikas. Harry knows damn well they saved the world, knows a lot more than he wished he did, but he feels somewhere deep down that things are just not right with this disbandment, exile from the people who saved HIM.

Maybe it was time to go home.

If only to be with Ron.

A black and white ball hits his leg lightly and a childish apology warbles through the night air. Harry turns to see one of his prodigies chasing his vice, politely Harry returns the football. "What's the score?" he shouts in disjointed German.

The straw haired boy replies simply, "Not keeping points."

George is dead.

Lucky bastard.

Technically Fred has a life and a joke shop. At least that's what all the papers with his gaudy signature say, but sometimes he catches himself thinking he has strictly a joke shop, and not always that.

It's not the town. The people of Athens love their ignorant Englishman with his inane mood swings and fondness for profanity and buying rounds for the house. They greet him in the streets and send him a number of useless things…olives, olive oil, and goats.

Goats are terrible to experiment on, plus it's illegal.

And no practical joke involves olives or their associated byproducts.

This is all very unfortunate as business would be far more economical if Fred could separate someone from their ass with olive oil. Alas, he cannot and has not actually spent so very much time in his lab.

Fred spends a lot more time making lists.

THINGS TO DO IN THE VERY NEAR FUTURE…

Write Mum's solicitor, explain to him that I want nothing to do with the family livestock; I seem to have enough of my own (damn goats) thank you very much.

Congratulate the father of Hermione's baby.

Decide if this father is Viktor, Nott, myself, or rather a random bloke Hermione has meet in a bookstore in Italy (would that be Venice, Florence, or Rome?).

Find Harry and Ron.

Get the bloody hell out of Athens (why am I here exactly?).

Find plunger.

At Christmastime Blaise receives a card in the mail from Hermione. It's been two years since they've done anything besides sleep together and Blaise wonder if she's pregnant yet. Everyone has always had a way of dealing…Potter ran away, the Weasley hen kept busy, Hermione put out, Draco got married (had temporary loss of mind), and Blaise decided to grow grapes.

Wine genuinely makes Blaise happy. It is an illness, an obsession, one of those things he absolutely cannot live without, would not if he could, Blaise chooses his own destiny now. Since the war ended (hates to think of that age) Blaise has become flagrantly bisexual, and part of that is owed to a love of rugby and a contrasting love of wine and silk.

War. Wine. (not)Women.

That was the Trinity of Blaise's existence. His mind wandered amongst the three at its leisure, his delicate palm running over his ebony blade head, scarred dramatically, and it often led to migraines that blinded and bit.

Packing his bags Blaise thinks that everyone must be unable to escape the terrors of the war. The nightmares don't come quite so much if he gets liberally drunk on a white from before his birth. So Blaise has to wonder if Hermione is worth the dreams London will wake in him.

She is. Probably.

He packs an entire trunk of wine and marks it VALUABLE( understatement).

It rains in Brussels. A lot.

Not to say that it doesn't rain in other parts of the world, have you ever been to Scotland in spring? Or the Midwest in late August? Florida any time of the year?

To Hannah it rains constantly in Brussels. It is raining when she walks to her cubical, raining as she automatically pops up her umbrella on the way to the Metro, as she passes the square Victor Hugo called the most amazing in all the world, as she pets her cat and sips coco.

Basically in Brussels, it does nothing but rain.

Out of habit Hannah checks the paper for the weather in London and Milan (where Justin is) and Rome (where she buys her wine from) and Paris (because she loves it there). Sometimes Hannah sits in her cubical tapping her highlighter against a briefing she's already memorized and wonders why she hates the idea of going to Paris.

Her heart (coeur) longs for Paris but she is so afraid of …of everything. You see, there was a time when Hannah killed a man, one lone man, and since then she can't forgive herself. So, out of penance, she wears too much dark wool, scuffed boots, eats more canned soup than she thought possible, goes to church despite being a witch, and doesn't put batteries in the purple dildo in her bedside table.

No vibrating for Hannah.

"Why are you still here, child?" asks the priest who speaks to her from the other side of a confessional.

"I'm being vindicated, Father," murmurs Hannah, and she believes this more fervently than she does the whole cross and martyr bit.

The Father knows all this and instead he whispers something bizarre, "How many Hail Marys have you done this week, child?"

"665," answers Hannah promptly.

"Never do another one."

So the next day Hannah writes her own prayers. One is called a two weeks' notice, the other is a request for a ticket to London. Her heart (heart) needs to relive the past before it can look to the future. Westminster before Notre Dame. Hannah needs to forgive herself, forgive herself, forgive herself, forgive herself, forgive herself…

It stops raining the day she leaves Brussels.

Brussels  London  Paris…chain reaction, forgiveness precedes renewal.

But she totally went out and purchased batteries first.

Pansy is a lesbian married to a man.

Draco is a perfectly straight man who sleeps with his best friend when he visits.

Pansy takes the wine from Blaise and points him toward the cracked bedroom door.

Draco it waiting there.

Pansy thinks she got the better deal with the wine.

Draco disagrees.

Neither of them wear wedding rings anymore.

Except to dinner with his parents.

Her parents know the truth, have always known the truth.

Draco tells Pansy they are going to London.

Pansy takes 'they' to be herself, Draco, Blaise, and a crate of wine.

Draco says 'they' like he means himself, his wife, and his lover.

Pansy packs her bags.

Draco travels light.

Pansy tells Blaise to write ORGANS next to VALUABLE.

London is humid.

Paris was cool.

Rome was Italian and thus temperamental.

Pansy wonder why they are home now.

Draco says because it was time.

Pansy points out that they have had two years.

Draco thinks this might not have been enough time.

Pansy looks at England and it hurts.

Draco gets an erection.

Pansy remembers war, sex in bathroom stalls, potion bombs, and chalk dust.

It is all very nostalgic.

Blaise tells them to get an annulment.

For old time's sake.

Draco shakes his head to this.

Pansy points out how terribly his parents would react.

Draco reconsiders.

Pansy points out how not often they have sex.

Draco mocks how acceptant and smug her parents will be.

Pansy shrugs, she has just seen this _thing _that no longer has _pigtails_.

Draco signs the dotted line.

Pansy wonders if Hannah put batteries in the dildo yet.

There is freedom in free love.

Freedom in sex with your best friend.

Friends(and Gryffindors) in memories that walk toward you nine months pregnant and

tell your best friend and lover it's not theirs.

Thank God.

Dean ended up in California.

Completely and contemporarily straight,

As straight as that twisted road of war that put him in the states.

Little worse for the wear, guilty for surviving Seamus,

Independently alive despite the claddagh ring he can't take off, so Celtic Irish.

Forlorn and painting black beach sunsets off lonely boardwalks,

On his own, Dean chews the ends of paintbrushes and debates facing his past.

Red smudges the back of his palm like the blood along the neck of a fallen comrade.

Now is the time, Hermione due in a few minutes, tabloid rumors put Harry found…

It is with metaphor on canvas Dean hawks enough talent for fare home.

And isn't home a funny word?

Dean began in London.

Fleur went back to London because Bill had asked her to, before he died.

She'd just given it two extra years.

London was not Fleur's place; her heart belonged in fluent French, in Paris, in anywhere except the smoggy cobblestone streets of London. Fleur alone was returning to a place she hated, but it was time. Lives were beginning to collide again, as they so inevitably would. London was now the epicenter for an eruption of veterans back from nursing their wounds.

To Fleur, Denmark had become home, it was not French, but it was Danish. Fleur had been that Danish girl smoking a French cigar in Venice, even though she didn't know the meaning of internationality. Denmark had been a once upon a time after a happily never after in England.

As the New Year passed into beginning she stepped off a train, fresh faced and twenty something, carrying a pristine hat box and very little else. Her feet were tired, she didn't have a place to stay, but she knew that she had to leave Denmark where Bill was buried, and Paris wasn't ready for her yet.

So, down the hell hole she went.

Or actually she stepped into a bar for a drink.

George was the father.

Interesting.

A metaphor must be buried in there somewhere; after all, this reunion has been nothing more than a copulation of literary devices. This is what Hermione thinks as she looks at her baby (Grey? Maven? Cole?) . She sits on a stool tilting her head as she watches Ron mix drinks (this is evolution).

"Martini, dry." The familiar voice warms Hermione.

"You found yourself," murmurs Hermione into his collar bone as she buries her head into him.

Ron slides two martinis across the bar and turns to a familiar girl standing forlorn at the bar. "Fleur?"

"Oui? Ron? Where ez 'arry?"

"Give her a drink," instructs Ginny tiredly, the last of her roommate flyers scattered over the counter top, neon and smiling like something sinister. Ginny watches Ron's oasis, dark, fairly unchanged since she had first stepped into the bar at nine and a half linked to her mother's hand. People pass though with shopping bags, talking happily, worse times forgotten.

It feels remarkably like a coffeehouse to Ginny, the walls lines with heroes in destiny denial (afraid to get back down), defiant damsels (hooked to each other's mouths), and otherwise odd magic eight balls (insert any name here). She uses a flyer as a coaster (wishing Hermione weren't so devoted to Viktor).

Fleur shyly idles up to her with a matching flyer and Ginny can only nod wordlessly. Signs come in odd places, Ginny knows, but she has nothing to say to this, this is above and beyond.

Ron has hung a sign over his bar. It reads War. Whisky. (not)Women. He stole it from a label off the wine(which he hadn't been going to sell, but forceful kisses from the not boyfriend of the proprietor change minds). Fred thinks this sign remarkably dumb humor, but Harry told Ron this was nothing, Fred was, after all, the only English comedian with more goats than jokes.

"Funny how we all ended up here," interjects Malfoy, leaning over the bar for a cherry.

Hermione slaps Malfoy for layering on an added metaphor. On Malfoy's finger is a ring of hands, heart, and crown, so Celtic Irish it's almost vintage.

"I really wish you wouldn't bruise the merchandise Hermione," said Blaise, giving her a kiss on the cheek.

Pansy slaps Blaise as she and Hannah get up, ready to leave (defiant damsels), "He was mine first!"

And they did not live perhaps through literary device, but they lived in England.

They lived.


End file.
